The Lonely Glade
by dontaskimdissapointed
Summary: A Bretonnian knight makes his way home, weary from battle and loss. His travels take him through the Athel Loren, and his journey becomes considerably more complicated when he stumbles upon a house in a glade, and the girl who lives there. First attempt at Fantasy, let me know of any discrepancies.


Far down from the Montdidier Pass, deep within Athel Loren, a road runs between the ancient oak trees. The cracked and worn cobble stones are weathered with age, and few men travel the path for fear of what lurks amongst the shadows of the venerable trees. A low, uneven stone wall shoulders the road, at many place buried beneath jumbles of overgrown ivy and brambles. Small rodents make their homes amongst the rocks, peeking their heads out from between dandelions and primrose, ready to disappear at the slightest disturbance in their surroundings.

A song bird chirped amongst the trees as a knight rode listlessly along the path. The dry deciduous leaves under-hoof drifted away from the heavy impacts of the brown war horse as it trotted along. The knight turned his helmet towards the sky overhead, his blue eyes picking up the soft light filtering through the canopy.

The knight wore a surcoat that was a diamond checkered green and red pattern, which matched the heavy cloth caparison worn by his stallion. His armour was dented but still held a sheen so that when rays of sun flitted across its surface it shone brightly. Upon his helm a lion crouched, snarling. His checkered shield bore the heraldry of a similar lion, rearing up on its hind legs.

A small wooden bridge, less than four metres across, spanned a shallow riverbed. A creek burbled quietly below, flowing off into the gloom of the forest. When the knight reached the stream he halted his horse and slowly climbed down, drained from his travels. The horse patiently brought its head down to chew at the long grass while its master rested his lance against the bridge and searched through one of the leather satchels across the beasts saddle.

After retrieving a water skin the young noble went down to the creeks edge, where he dipped the empty vessel into the cool blue water. Once the container was full he sat down by the side of the road and removed his helmet, placing it down carefully in a bed of long overgrown grass and flowers.

The man was young, probably barely out of his teens. He had auburn hair, cropped short and damp from perspiration. His features were lean and sharp and his bright blue eyes sat above freckled cheeks. His armoured joints creaked slightly as he reclined in the grass, leaning against the solid surface of the stone wall. He tipped the now full water skin into his mouth, drinking the cool, clear water. His eyes remained fixed on the forest, searching the gloom for any hint of danger.

The knight knew full well what lurked within the borders of the Athel Loren. Monsters, Elves and worse that could kill a man before he even knew that he was in peril. One had to always assume that enemies skulked out of sight, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

But the knight also knew that the forest respected those that respected it. Many men feared to tread within the magical glades, but the knight knew that if he stuck to the path and did not do anything to anger the forest, it would bring him no harm. At least that was what he hoped.

He really had no choice, at the end of the day. Battles, fought for honour and glory, had brought him far from home and now he was returning. He had spent long dark nights by the fireside, dreaming of striding through the gates of the castle, armour polished and people cheering.

He knew now that his homecoming would be far less glamourous. The men he had set out with, the peasants who had offered themselves to his service, were all dead. Their bodies now rotted, bones bleaching on distant battlefields. They had all been good men, novel company and unquestioningly loyal. But they were gone, and the knight had moved on as well.

After resting for a while longer the knight placed his helmet back on his head and climbed wearily back onto his stead. The horses hoofs rang with dull thumps against the wooden surface of the bridge before being replaced with the clop of iron against stone. The knight carried on, deeper into the forest.

* * *

It was midday when the knight cleared a bend in the road and was greeted by bright sunlight. He trotted out into an open glade, shielding his eyes from the blinding light.

There was an opening in the trees, and the path twisted back and forth down a slope for a distance. The ground was carpeted by long grass and weeds, and bees buzzed between the tall meadow flowers. A creek, perhaps the very same one from earlier, ran down the length of the glade, rolling across rocks and splashing over small water falls. Birds chirped in the foliage, and a breeze drifted by, making the leaves of the trees murmur to each other and sending a wave rolling through the grass.

At the foot of the glade sat a small, one story house. A gravel path ran to the cobble stone road, and a wooden lamp post held a cast iron lamp at a little over head height. The dwelling had a golden thatched roof, and clean white plaster walls. A garden, brimming with herbs and vegetables, sat against one wall of the quaint house. Smoke drifted from the single stone chimney.

The knight tapped the flanks of his horse gently, starting it down the path. He was cautious, but immensely curious of whoever had chosen to make a home within the enchanted woods. The horse seemed to sense his apprehension, and snorted. The knight patted the broad neck of the beast reassuringly.

It was as the man neared the house that the door creaked open. A woman stepped from the shadows and moved over to the garden, before kneeling to begin picking peas. The knight stopped his horse a short distance from the house, his bemused expression hidden by his helmet. The woman either had failed to notice him, or was simply indifferent to his presence.

"My lady." The young man called down to the kneeling woman. She showed no response. The knights Bretonnian pride was piqued by the ladies obvious lack of interest, but he pushed his inherent arrogance down.

"Excuse me." He tried again. The lady glanced over her shoulder before turning back to her work. The young knight was shocked. She had long, messy blonde hair and striking blue eyes, similar to his own. She looked young, perhaps still a teenager, and he wondered why someone so youthful would be in the woods. The girl wore a leather jerkin and hunters leggings.

"Is there something specific that you want?" The woman's voice startled the knight. He had been about to leave the strange dwelling, but decided to try once more.

"Only to ask if a weary traveller would be allowed rest a while in your home." He said, choosing his words carefully.

"You are no traveller." The young woman said. The knight could not put a finger on her accent. "You are a soldier. You have fought wars and killed." The man was taken aback.

"What kind of sorcery..." He muttered.

"Your armour speaks for itself. And yes, you can come in." She said, glancing back at him smiling, mocking but friendly.

The knight nodded to the woman before walking his horse the last few paces to the house. He got down and tied the reigns to the lamp post before removing his helmet and putting it alongside his shield on the horses saddle.

"What is your name, knight?" The woman asked, brushing off her hands and picking up her wooden bowl.

"DeGuerre. Paul DeGuerre." He said, crunching up the gravel path towards the house, his apprehension fading. "And yours, my lady?" He asked.

"You can call me Nina, Paul. And please don't call me a lady." The girl said. DeGuerre was taken aback by her lack of formalities that, even as a relatively low born noble, he had grown accustomed too.

"Y-yes. Of course." DeGuerre said, following the lady towards the house.

It was tidy inside, the stone floors swept and the paned windows free of grime. There were a few embers smouldering in the small fireplace, and a cat was curled up on a rocking chair.

"Do you live here by yourself, lady Nina?" He asked, bowing his head to step through the door. He clumsily knocked over a broom, and scrambled to pick it up, apologizing. The girl only giggled.

"Yes, I do. And please don't call me lady." She said, smiling and placing the bowl of pees down on the counter. "Feel free to sit down. I'm sure the cat won't mind being moved."

Paul thanked the woman before trying to slide the cat off the rocking chair as gently as possible. It hissed angrily at him before stalking out of the house. Paul stuck his tongue out at it mockingly before remembering he was in the presence of a lady.

He sat himself down on the stained wooden chair, letting his aching joints settle into place. The lady brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it gratefully. He drank it slowly before placing the glass down on a small round table nearby. Before he knew what was happening his head was nodding back, and exhaustion overtook him.

* * *

Sunlight broke through the clouds over head, casting brilliant light through down through the darkness and onto the plains below. A brisk breeze swept down through the mountain valley, across the fields, catching the banners and pennants of the idle cavalry.

Five hundred men sat waiting, horses snorting with apprehension at the coming battle. Men at arms moved among the ranks of knights, checking over gear and making sure gleaming armour was safely secured in place.

Paul sat, staring across the battlefield as Rodrick tightened a final buckle on his greaves. The man at arms nodded up at his lord, his eyes hidden beneath his sallet helmet. Paul leaned over and shook the loyal peasants hand, making eye contact through the slit in his great helm. The bearded man turned and headed back towards the other soldiers.

The host of Bretonnian warriors fell silent, the only noise permeating the air being the wind through the long grass and the jingle of horses reigns as they shook their heads impatiently. A lone lord rode down the line, pennant flying behind him. He halted at the centre of the formation, pausing and looking out across the field.

The horde of orks roared, their taunts forming a single wall of noise. Paul could see them, waving their crude axes and brandishing thick bows. Tattered and worn banners bearing crude insignias fluttered in the breeze. The larger nobs stomped through the ranks of chanting and screaming green skins, stoking the orks into a frenzy of blood lust. Smaller goblins scrambled towards their units, struggling with barbed spears and spiked shields.

The lord, sitting alone in front of the silent Bretonnians, lifted his shining long sword high into the air. Five hundred lances dropped to ready positions under arm pits with a clatter of wood against steel. The knight looked once more over the noble host, before bringing the point of the sword down in an arc, pointing towards the ork horde.

Through out the colourful ranks, horns began blowing, calling out to each other. They were followed moments later by the ominous thump of the infantries drums. As one the knights started their canter, a single long wall of horse and metal. The horns continued to bray as the canter turned into a gallop.

Soon the Bretonnians were moving at a full charge. Hoofs slammed against the earth, throwing up clods of dirt. The clouds broke, and the sun shone down from high above on the five hundred charging knights, glittering on polished armour. The orks, throwing defence to the wind, began sprinting as fast as their muscled legs could carry them towards the incoming nobility.

Paul's breath rang loud in his ears, reverberated by the steel helmet. The narrow slit gave him less than ideal vision, but he could still see well enough to make out the wave of green skins drawing closer with each passing moment. The nobility were answering the orks with their own war cry's, and DeGuerre joined in, adding his roar to that of the men around him.

Paul steadied his lance as he closed the final distance. He braced the long weapon as best as he could under his armpit, pressed against his raised shield. It was difficult to control the weight while staying balanced on the sprinting horse but he tried his best to keep the weapon pointing a particularly large ork who seemed to be leading the charge. He stared the beast down, his blue eyes locking with its beady red ones.

The two opposing lines rushed towards each other, horns blowing and drums thumping. There was an enormous crash as the mounted nobility impacted with the charging orks. DeGuerre's lance slammed into the target beast's chest, lifting it off of it's feat and sending it crashing backwards with force, a massive cavity opened in its torso.

Paul released his lance and before it had even hit the ground his long sword was out. The trusty war horse kept its momentum, crashing through ork lines, hoofs striking out at any green skin unfortunate enough to be caught in the way. Thick skulls cracked beneath the lashing iron horse shoes. Paul barely saw where he was striking, so caught up in the moment. His sword was a blur, striking left and right, splitting skulls and cutting necks.

The young noble didn't notice, but he was still roaring, his war cry mixing with the screams of the dying. Sliced arteries jetted ork blood into the air, spraying red against the perfectly maintained green and red checkered caparison of the horse. A massive axe swung at Paul, but he managed to bring his shield across to block the swing just in time, the axe deflecting off the snarling lion in the middle of the shield. The shock sent vibrations running up the nobles arm, making it feel weak.

Despite his initial success, the knight was losing momentum fast, and with it went his advantage. Off to his left a noble was dragged screaming off of his horse by two goblins. They fell on him, and his screams turned to gurgles as one of them slipped a dagger into his unprotected neck. A muscled arm grabbed onto DeGuerre's leg, wrenching at it. He separated the arm from its owner before parrying a stab from a particularly brave goblins spear.

DeGuerre's sword rose and fell again and again, hacking at the green skins around him. Suddenly his horse reared up, an ork stalling the beasts motion with determined spear thrusts. Paul clung on to the horse, failing to notice a large ork leaping up at him from behind. It collided with the knight, wrapping a meaty arm around his chest and dragging him backwards.

Paul felt himself tumbling back and flailed his arms in a desperate attempt to free himself from his attackers grasp. Whoever had latched onto him hit the ground first, the armoured noble landing on his back on top. DeGuerre felt ribs snap, and he spun over onto his chest, desperately fumbling for the short sword at his waist.

The ork was winded, but far from disabled, and grabbed onto the young nobles helmet in a two handed grip. It began twisting, and DeGuerre realized that it meant to snap his neck. He finally managed to free the short sword, and slashed it forward in an awkward backhanded grip. The orks neck was opened up, and it coughed blood through its severed oesophagus.

The noble tried to stand up, but before he could get to his feet a cleaver slammed into his pauldron. The blow had been poorly aimed, and it deflected up off DeGuerre's shoulder, and out of harms way for the moment. It still had carried enough weight to send him sprawling in the dirt. He knew that the next strike would probably be fatal if he didn't do something quick, and he scrambled for his shield, which had fallen a couple metres away in the mud. He felt like he was moving sluggishly, the moist ground hindering his armoured movement.

Before he could get more than a metre the attacking creature had leaped on to his back. He felt the weight on top of him shift as the beast raised its cleaver for the killing blow. The young man's eyes closed as he braced for the finishing strike.

The blow never came. He felt the weight above him slump forwards, pressing him face first into the mud. He began to panic as he felt liquid begin pouring through the breathing holes in his helmet and he called out. His screams were muffled by the mud beginning to fill his mouth.

As quickly as the weight had landed on him it was gone. He felt strong hands grabbing onto his shoulder and spinning him over. His eyes were filled with sunlight and he tore off his helmet, blowing mud out of his mouth. He doubled over, retching and coughing.

Someone grabbed onto him under his arms, trying to pull the knight to his feet. DeGuerre reluctantly slid his filthy helmet back onto his head, snatching his sword, which had landed point down in the ground, and his shield which was nearby. He looked up at the man who had saved him.

Rodrick grinned down at him. His tabard, bearing the heraldry of his lord, was torn and blood stained. His tower shield retained a long crack and his halberd was notched and covered in ork blood. His eyes were hidden by his helmet but his bearded face bore an amused grin.

"There are still orks to kill my lord. There is no time for rolling about in the mud." The soldier growled in his gravelly voice. DeGuerre grinned at the mans insolence.

"Thank you Rodrick. I will be sure to reward you for saving my life." The noble man said, readying his weapons.

"Serving you is honour enough, my lord." The peasant said, statistically. He took off at a jog, hurrying to rejoin his unit.

The noble climbed back onto his horse as quickly as he could, despite his battered state. He kicked the flanks of the stallion, taking off to regroup with the rest of the knights. The battlefield was littered with the dead and dying from both sides, but the orks were routing.

It was at that moment that DeGuerre became aware of a steady pattering sound. The sounds of battle were growing quieter, to replaced by the incessant tapping. The young knight turned his gaze upwards, towards the heavens.

* * *

Paul's eyes snapped open. Rain was pounding against the windows, rattling the glass in its frame. He brought the back of his hand across his face to clear the sleep from his eyes. It was dark, almost pitch black, and what little light there was in the room was cast from the dying embers in the fire place. Paul sat up, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

He took in his surroundings and almost jumped when his eyes fell on the small bed in the corner. The girl was sitting up, fully clothed, staring at the young man. Her head was cocked at a slight angle and she wasn't moving a muscle, perfectly still in the darkness. The knight felt awkward, unsure of what to say to his host.

"You couldn't sleep either?" He asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"How did you get here?" The girl asked, the question taking DeGuerre by surprise.

"What do you mean?" Paul said. He was beginning to feel timorous of the strange girl, and the idea of leaving was starting to appeal more and more.

"I mean how did you get to this glade?" She asked, almost whispering the question. Her voice was barely audible over the sound of the rain against the house.

"I rode, on my horse. I don't understand what you are getting at." He said, trying to do his best commanding tone. It ended up sounding hollow, and he cursed the tremble in his voice. The entire situation perturbed the young noble. There was something distinctly off putting about the glade and the girl. It had been indistinct before, barely recognizable. But he could feel something deviant in the air now.

"You shouldn't be here." Nina said flatly. This sent Paul over the edge. Something strange was going on, and he wanted no part in it.

"I thank you for your hospitality but I really must be going." He said, standing up. All of his armour was still on and he scanned the floor quickly to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything as he made his way towards the door. The girl stood up, startled.

"You can't go." She said, forcefully yet hesitantly. "It's the middle of the night, and it's pouring rain. You'll be drenched."

"No, I must insist." He said, opening the door. The wind rushed in, bringing the flames in the fireplace back to life. The smell of smoke and fire filled his nostrils. The room was illuminated as DeGuerre stepped outside. The rain blew against his face and he walked briskly towards his horse. The beast was whinnying and stamping the ground. It was obviously agitated.

"Paul." The voice came from directly behind him. The noble spun around, hand shooting to the short sword on his waist. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you leave."

The figure was standing right there, in the rain. Before Paul knew what was happening a club had impacted with his temple. He was unconscious before he hit the ground, landing in amongst the wet grass and flowers.


End file.
